Ups and downs
Trip Start
Nov 03, 2004
1
38
165
Trip End
Nov 23, 2006
Arequipa,
Peru
Tuesday, June 7, 2005
onward bus trip to Arequipa. All this for the same taxi fare we paid to drive up the hill to visit light-up Jesus.
Arequipa is a very beautiful city. Most of the public buildings are built from the local luminous volcanic white stone, sillar - and they have some serious architecture. The town was "founded" in 1540 but had previously been occupied by the Aymara indians and Incas. The
town nestles at 2,380m in a valley guarded by the snow capped mountains, Misti (the volcano), Chachani and Pichu-Pichu, and is a UNESCO world cultural heritage site
Arequipa - Santa Catalina
. It is also the gateway for most gringos to Colca Canyon which is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon (though, in fairness, nowhere near as cool).The town is livid with roller skate sized yellow micro taxis and there are no road rules except that you have right of way if you really want it! Like most of the colonially founded cities it is
organised on a grid pattern around the central square. After that, you need to know the secret handshake to find anything - instead of a diversity of shops on any given street or malls, the shops are organised by street. There is the street of fire extinguisher sellers, the street of solar heating experts, the corner of passport photo sellers, the street of cheap women's undies which is also the riot police hide-out, and endless streets of tourist tat sellers.
The traditional dress of the ladies of the region (seen as everyday dress everywhere) runs to layers and layers of intensively embroidered bits and pieces. The embroidery is specific to the region and features the birds and fish that thrive in and near the rivers that are the symbol of life for Quechua people. You start with a high necked blouse (satins are favoured), over which is addedan embroidered buttoned up vest and then an embroidered jacket
(velvet is preferred). Long skirts are the vogue - two - both bordered with the same embroidery, the underskirt worn full length and the overskirt hitched up in the front like something Victorian. The entire ensemble is finished with an embroidered ladies bowling
hat, turned up at the back to accommodate a luxurious plait of hair
Colca - a hard-earned dip
.We established ourselves in the gorgeous Tumi de Oro hostel (NZD20.00 per night, massive bedroom filled with antiques opening onto rooftop terrace, dressing room and bathroom) and hit town for some culture. Aside from prowling the churches and generally standing gaping at
architecture, the most interesting site in the town is Santa Catalina. Established soon after the founding of the city it is the convent of a contemplative order of nuns - usually drawing its ranks from the daughters of the wealthy. The convent covers two hectares in the centre of the city and is a complete walled city on its own. It is a labyrinth of cobbled streets, buttressed houses, plazas, communal spaces and enormous kitchens, as well as the individual
cells of the nuns. The complex was opened to the public in 1970 but there is still a small order of nuns who live in seclusion in a separate part of the convent. It is a bright, sun-filled, place that somehow gave the impression of bustle even though the nuns are still secluded. It lacked the tranquil air of San Ignacio and Santo Domingo but it was filled with the most fascinating things in the museums. If your daughter was about to enter the total seclusion of
a contemplative order of nuns (you know, obedience, chastity, poverty) would you think the most sensible thing to set her up with would be a hand-painted porcelain tea service?
One of the mother superiors, educated by the nuns and choosing the order over the wishes of her parents, was declared a saint by Pope John Paul II on his visit to Arequipa in the 1990s
Colca - close enough to hear it pass
. Her apartments have become a chapel and opening off from them you can view the room (and bed) where Arequipa's very own saint finished her journey.The following morning, rising at the unearthly hour of 5:30am we began our journey to Colca Canyon. We're back into the land of combat bus boarding. We travelled the first three hours of the five hour bus journey standing because the bus company had on-sold our reservations - our guide nearly died of embarrassment.
We were travelling with two Quebecois. By the time we arrived at Cabanaconde France was suffering from altitude sickness and looked ready to die. After lunch Guido, our guia, insisted she be checked at the local clinic before we could proceed. The doctor refused to
let her descend the canyon with us and so arrangements had to be made to get her to tomorrow's accommodation. We waited outside the clinic while this was being organised while old Peruvian codgers wandered passed and asked if we were going to San Juan tonight. An affirmative was greeted with sucking breath around teeth anddisbelieving head shaking - it was just before 3:00pm.
France sorted out with a guide and a mule and Melanie deciding to continue with us we headed into the canyon
Colca - deper than the Grand Canyon
. It's really, really deep at 1,200m and this is far from the deepest part. The path winds 9km down the steep, barren (except for cactuses) side of the canyon tothe river crossing below. On the opposite you can see villages working the terraced sides of the canyon, growing exclusively the maize traditionally served barbequed with ceviche - some of the terraces date from Inca times. There are almost no services in these villages - everything is accessed, including schooling, by walking up to Cabanaconde. Guido was constantly stopping us to point out different types of plants, to explain the history of particular partsof the trail, to get us out of the way firewood laden donkeys or locals (not even breaking a sweat) on their way up to the village. The native tree, mole, which grows here is the source of pink peppercorns and this is the primary area where cochineal bugs (the
source of red food colouring and clothes dyes) are harvested - Guido found us a female bug and then murdered it to illustrate it's redness.
By 6:00pm the sun had set and our lives had turned into a purgatory delineated by the silver gray circle illuminated by the head light. Endlessly zigging and zagging and zigging over treacherous shale, waiting to stumble into the next cactus or slide down the next section of track and hope to stop before you pitched over the unseen cliff, heading for the roar of the river that never seemed any closer and the rickety suspension bridge that probably didn't exist anyway.
By the time we hit (for me literally) the bridge I was staggering around like a Bug in a brand new Edgar suit (yes, we caught MIB on a bus to somewhere)
Colca - firewood the hard way
. That was when we discovered we now had to climb a rock face which was the sheer drop to the river and then walk along a track that was exactly two adult feet (placed side by side) wide andon the cliff edge. About then David's nerves began to shred (mine were well gone) as he coped with his own issues with walking on the edge of vertical drops to rocks and a rushing river and watched me lurching, staggering and falling along the same insane track. There
were some very interesting irrigation channels.
We arrived at San Juan an hour and a half after we were due. I cried. I had totally lost control of my legs (and was just clinging to mental threads). I had to be rescued on the way back from the baņo as I staggered around the lawn like some giant demented firefly. I didn't even have the energy to jeer at the cage of guinea pigs.
Our meal, of vegetable soup and vegetarian omelette with fries and rice, was cooked by the ladies of the house. They have an outdoor kitchen and no electricity. They work with headlights. Cooking is either in the conical clay oven or over the fire spilling out the back. The logs are too big for the oven and stretch across the kitchen floor gradually being shoved further in as they burn down
Traditional dress
.The next day we walked from San Juan to the aptly named Oasis, wandering through a co-operative agricultural system that is 500 years old. The original Inca Trail runs up the canyon side above San Juan and some of the farming methods date from Inca times. All thisside of the canyon is terraced and feed by irrigation races that draw water from natural springs and snow melts. The terraces are fertilised by sheep, pig and donkey, the ploughing is done with
wooden shears and donkey power. The land is individually owned but everything is done co-operatively - from the construction of the irrigation channels, repair of the terracing, harvesting, building
the new donkey trail up the other side of the canyon to the village. The houses are built of reeds or adobe, there is no electricity, only cold running water and no heating beyond the kitchen fire. The people are friendly, welcoming and generous with their time and information about their environment and their lives.
For 20 minutes we had a taste of what tomorrow's climb back out of the canyon would be like. It was no bloody fun and I don't do it every Sunday to get to school for the week or when I've run out of milk. At the top, staggering and gasping (me), Guido took us to
paradise. We were invited into a villager's garden where, under the shade of a massive avocado, we gulped and slurped organically grown apples, pears, chemoya and oranges. There was a stillness and peace in his little Eden dwarfed by massive, forbidding canyon walls ... then he took a frame from his beehive and we feasted on golden,apple, citrus honey, liquid and warm from the sun while bees buzzed contentedly about our heads. And, again, I thought there might be something to this trekking thing after all.
Onwards, but fortunately downwards (although my knees and quads didn't agree), we headed for lunch. We crossed the river again on a much less unstable suspension bridge and arrived at Oasis. After two days of unforgiving sun, cactus spines and dust and dust, the pool
feed from an underground spring looked like a mirage. We had an hour before Guido would have lunch ready. We frolicked and gamboled like sirens while weary, less lucky backpackers trudged onwards in the other direction.
The afternoon was free to wander, snooze or explore. I snoozed (I had no illusions about the 2:30am start tomorrow), David explored (an recorded cochineal bug harvesting) and France (who had rejoined us) and Melanie wandered (and fell in the river). Later that evening
David directed them to the shop - they became entangled in a bush and then (France wearing my sports sandals for dry footwear) fell in the stream. On the way to the trail the next morning France fell in another stream but managed to miss the pool.
This trekking kick is really David's. Next morning (at 2:30am) it was unsurprisingly dark and cold, the climb was 1200m and would take three and a half hours, and my quads had a view on standing up. I took a donkey up the hill (I'd wanted to do the whole thing on donkey
anyway!). David says the walk, entirely in the dark, was less difficult than he expected but not exactly fun and represents an overcome obstacle (the bus was at the top). My donkey had no saddle just an arrangement of blankets, no stirrups and no reins. He obviously knew the trail by heart. He zig-zagged his way up the trail and had a tendency to go right out to the edge of the track and then stop to rest - this left me staring into the abyss, clinging, white knuckled to my blankie and hoping he didn't lurch or get hungry for something just out of reach. By the time we reached the top I had other muscles that were masking the pain in my quads and I didn't think I would ever be able to uncurl my hands again. (As I lowered
myself gingerly into the taxi back in Arequipa the taxi drivergrinned and said, "Mucho caminando en Colca"!).
Safely reunited about an hour later our group joined the combat bus boarding queue for Cruz del Condor. To get everyone on the bus there were people standing in the isles, sitting on laps and standing on the seat arms but only 20 minutes (of jamming and cramming) late we
were on our way.
Every morning as the sun warms the canyon walls the condors come out to play and begin their day on the thermals. The miradors are built right out on the edge of the canyon wall they nest on. We thought we'd be lucky to see a couple of condors for a few minutes. Two
hours later we had watched a dozen plunging and soaring in a non- stop, breath-stopping show. As we have said before, up close there is no escaping the fact that condors, for all their romantic PR, are basically vultures. We've seen the source of the PR now - we have
seen them where they belong. On the thermals they are magnificent, huge, graceful, playful, huge, maneuverable, masterly and huge. They fly like I breathe. They have a sense of humour - condors don't hunt, they are out searching for carrion, and every couple of minutes
they'd fly over the miradors to see if one of us had died. They flew in squadrons diving and squabbling. They came so close overhead we could see their faces and hear the wind in their feathers - a sound like hands caressing velvet.
Arequipa seemed small and brittle after our three days away. They were throwing workers' protests to force an increase in the minimum wage. There were marchers in the streets and chanting and placards and an air of weariness among Arequipans who've seen it all before
and it doesn't change anything. Grasping for some tranquility we wandered into the cathedral and had one of those moments that are about timing and someone smiling on you. While the riot police formed up outside we stood transfixed to the sounds of 17th century pipe organ that filled the entire end of the cathedral and a local soprano who filled the entire cathedral with a haunting Ave Maria.
Foodie experiences: dried alpaca meat and dried potato stew; black corn beer; tunas (the fruit of a cactus); honey fresh from the hive; guinea pig; alpaca roasted over (and served on) hot stones; chilli peppers stuffed with river shrimps, papaya, passionfruit juice and potatoes; being caught drooling my drink by a restaurant owner and being dragged, with everyone else in the restaurant, into a ritual offering thanks to Pachamama (drooling is apparently good luck); Foodie experiences we decided to pass on: deep fried cow's udder.
Peru is shaping up to be even more colourful, exotic and exciting than Bolivia (and they don't even throw dynamite here).
